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William Shakespeare

MERELY PLAYERS

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments1 min read284 views

John Clare – the celebrity bard, the ‘peasant

poet’;’drunkard’; ‘madman’; as famous

in his time as Keats – acquired many loyal

and enthusiastic patrons, among them

Bishop Marsh of Peterborough and his wife.

He sometimes stayed in the medieval palace.

On one occasion, Mrs Marsh took Clare

to see a performance by a touring

theatre company, whose repertoire

comprised French melodramas and Shakespeare’s plays.

The production that night was THE MERCHANT

OF VENICE. Clare sat through the first three acts –

in the box reserved for the Lord Bishop’s wife –

totally engrossed in the words and the actions,

oblivious of Mrs Marsh’s asking him

if he were enjoying the play. At the start

of the fourth act – set in a Venetian court –

he became agitated, and, at the point

where Shylock does not give the ‘gentle answer’

hoped for, Clare stood, shouting, “You villain,

you murderous villain!” – and leaped from the box

onto the stage. A couple of the more burly

actors prevented his reaching Shylock,

and strong armed him, with difficulty,

back into the box. As Mrs Marsh

tried to soothe the distracted poet,

the play was abandoned.

 

 

ACROSS THE ESTUARY

The beds of varicoloured reeds, fields almost,

stretch north and south along this bank for miles,

and westwards, nearly to Wales, across the wide,

silted river. Unseen marsh creatures scarcely

disturb the grasses. Egrets and herons

fly in and out of hidden lagoons.

Before silt, from here, the Dublin packet sailed –

with G.F. Handel and Jonathan Swift.

On the opposite shore are the ruins

of Flint Castle where Richard was dethroned –

‘…night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.’

Sun catches a window on Halkyn Mountain.

 

This year marks the first centenary

of the Amritsar massacre, the second

of Peterloo – but even now there are

doubters, equivocators, who minimise

the carnage, exculpate the perpetrators.

 

In the small car park behind us a car door

opens briefly – the radio announces,

in a public school accent, that there will be

never ending dystopia ‘until’

and ‘unless’. Today is the first of summer,

hot, windless, with dragonflies and bees

abounding. This remorseless marshland is

unequivocal – earth and vegetation

are ruthless, immaculate remembrancers.